


The Power of Two

by S_Faith



Series: My Own Little Sub-Universe [24]
Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-30
Updated: 2011-03-30
Packaged: 2019-11-24 20:56:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18169781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: The closer I'm bound in love to you, the closer I am to free.





	The Power of Two

**Author's Note:**

> Third (and probably final) installment of the Tom and Peter series. (First: [Your Little Secret](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18159392) [ **MA!!** ]; second: [My Favourite Mistake](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162452).) Certainly it's the shortest installment.
> 
> Title comes from a song by another female artist, or in this case, artists: the Indigo Girls (partial lyrics in summary).

"My sister-in-law wants to arrange it all."

You nearly choke on your coffee when you hear it. You love his sister-in-law—she's been one of your best friends in the whole world since before you even knew him—but you really don't want her to start channelling her mother (whom you adore in general), which, despite her vowing to never do so, she sometimes does.

"I know what you're thinking," he goes on. 

"Peter. Am I that transparent?" you say sheepishly.

"Yes," he declares with a twinkle in his eye. "And I think she should do it."

You cock your brow, waiting for his justification.

"She's actually pretty good at this sort of thing," he says to you. "And why _not_ make her do all the stupid little details and the hard work, especially if she's volunteering? We'd be mad not to take her up on it."

You look at him, his piercing blue eyes, dark hair shot through with the barest of silver, and the smile that spreads across your face, slow and uninhibited, does so quite without your thinking about it.

"I can see I've won you over," he drawls, reaching over and taking your hand. In some ways you can't believe it's really real, that you've managed to overcome so many past difficulties and make something work with this man. "I'll give her the green light, yeah?"

"Yeah," you reply. He brushes against your palm with his fingertips. Abruptly you say, "Dammit."

"Oh, Tom," he pouts, not ceasing the caress. "Now what's that all about?"

"I have something I can't get out of," you say. "This morning, I mean. Jonny B's booked studio time."

His fingers trail up your arm, curse that tease of a man. "Is it something you can be late for?"

"Not really," you say, just as his fingers comb into your hair. Your lids fall at this tender touch. "But I suspect I'll be late all the same." You barely get the words out when his mouth covers yours, and you taste muesli and black tea on his lips, feel his body against yours and, yeah. You're going to be late.

………

You realise pretty quickly that letting your friend Bridget take the reins on arranging wedding plans was quite possibly the best idea anyone had ever had. You only have to sign off on approving of this colour or that venue, and the whole process is as painless as possible.

Things come together very quickly. The date's set for the seventh of July. Your honeymoon will be in Venice. It's going to be a civil ceremony, for no other reason than you've never been particularly religious and it seems foolish and hypocritical to don that hat now. Bridget's going to be your matron of honour; Peter's brother Mark will be best man. Your godson and soon-to-be nephew, though a bit old for the role, wants to bear the rings. Nothing like keeping it in the family.

Logistics and the sale of your own flat dictated that you couldn't possibly have moved in with Peter before the wedding, so you've been packing up your things. Like little magical helper fairies, the Urban Family will ensure that those things will be ready and waiting for you when you return from the honeymoon.

It seems silly to have a separate hen party and stag party when the people who'd attend both are firmly in the centre of that particular Venn diagram. So you have a blast of a party about a week before in the back garden of Mark and Bridget's house in Holland Park, because you just can't smoke anywhere anymore. It's a sultry summer night with plenty to drink and paper lanterns and fairy lights festooning the patio.

"I never thought I'd see the day," quips Shaz, fag dangling from her lips as she talks, which is typical of her (and not particularly attractive, you think). "You getting married."

"Shut your mouth," you quip back as you take a slug of your drink.

"Miracles can happen," she goes on, taking the fag out to flick ash off the end. You steal it from her.

"You won't get an argument out of me on that." It's Peter, who then steals the fag from you, drops it and steps on it to put it out (in this he's like his brother, without question), eliciting a protest from Shaz. You expect he'll do this more often once you're married. You don't care. It's bickering you can live with. And Bridget seems to have tolerated the loving nags reasonably well all of these years; why not you?

"Nor from me," you add, as Peter puts his arm loosely around your waist. Even though the weather's warm, you lean into him.

You watch Shaz smile. What makes you laugh the most is how everyone keeps saying they should have known about the history between you and Peter, they should have seen this coming, but how could they have? You did so well to hide what had happened. It was the only way to make things bearable in close quarters.

You push away the painful memory and smile back.

In the wee hours everyone starts filing home, including the two of you. So many times you crashed at their house, pissed and crying alone in the dark; not this time, though. This time you're going home with the man you love, the man who loves you, so that you can pretend you're already living there together; you can strip him of his clothes and take him in the middle of the flat if you want, or just fall swimmy-headed into bed in a ridiculously romantic way.

It ends up being a combination of the two. You don't get a chance to strip him of his clothes before he does so to you. Like you're twenty years younger you roll around on the bed, kissing every square inch of one another, indulging again and again in each other's bodies, crying out with every climax reached. You push down guilty thoughts of foolishness from years before, how this might have been your life for years sooner if not for—

"It does no good to think of it," Peter had said on many occasions. "I was a fool, but I've been cured. Dwelling on the past does nothing but poison the future."

You agreed then, and you agree now, but it doesn't stop the thoughts from occasionally surfacing.

"Just have to drown the little fuckers," you murmur without thinking.

"What?" asks Peter incredulously with a laugh.

"Nothing," you say with a smile and another kiss. "Nothing at all."

………

The wedding is sedate yet fabulous. Peter and you have matching single-breasted suits with waistcoats, classic cut, tailored to perfection. Even the ties match, which you think is a bit corny, but when you stand there together you know you look astonishing. You exchange rings and vows, and everyone cheers when you kiss. How far you've come. How far everyone has come, really.

There's a small wedding reception for the lot of you, some dancing and drinking, and you feel yourself tear up when you see your sixteen-year-old godson dancing with a pretty young girl, the one he must have meant when he said he had a crush.

"How time flies," comments your new husband, his hand on your shoulder. You turn to look at him and smile.

"I hope time stands still from now on," you say in response.

You're given a grand send-off to the airport; you want to make that flight to get to the hotel in Venice in time to have champagne and chocolate and a soak in the hot tub. Before you go, though, you're surprised when Mark reaches out and gives you a warm, familial embrace, which is a first in all the time you've known the man.

"I'm really very happy for you," he says to you. "For both of you."

Bridget gives you both equally enthusiastic hugs, wiping tears from her eyes as she does. Very helpfully she doesn't say 'I told you so,' though you just know she's thinking it.

And then you're off to Gatwick; before you know it you're in the air, touching down at Marco Polo, then you're off to the hotel. You'll see the sights during your two weeks there, but this night is yours and his to celebrate the culmination of something that you realise has been building for years. When you close that door behind yourself and look into his eyes, you see your own smile reflected in his own. He steps closer, takes your hand in his then pulls you into his arms and hungrily claims your mouth.

………

When you wake in the morning you have that disorienting feeling of not knowing where you are; the sun's coming through and touching your skin, touching his as well. Seeing him brings you back to the present, centres you. You rise from the bed, pull on a robe, then walk to the window to see the sun's also painting gold dabs on the beautiful Venetian landscape. You feel like you're dreaming.

"Shall I call for some coffee?"

You turn to see Peter's up and reclined on his elbow, regarding you with a combination of love and desire. You feel lucky to be at the receiving end of that gaze.

"Sure," you say. "Sounds perfect."

Even though your Italian is no better, you chuckle at his pronunciation, then laugh at his relief when he realises he can ask in English. He gets breakfast for the both of you, assuming you'll want what you do, which of course he's right.

"Hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," you say, "as long as you don't think I'm going to be a meek little wife."

Peter burst out with a laugh. "I know better than that."

You sit on the bed again. "Just so we're clear."

He reaches for your robe's tie and tugs it. "Crystal." He lifts his gaze to you again, and you're lost once more. Lunging forward you kiss him, discarding your robe, pressing yourself up against him. You can have this every morning, you realise giddily. This is paradise, wherever you both might be.

When breakfast arrives you're already panting to recover your breath. "I'll get it," Peter says roughly, then rolls and gets off the bed. He returns presently with their tray, bearing coffee, brioche and fruit. You smile. It _is_ like a dream.

_The end._


End file.
